Celia let out the breath she was holding, then bit the inside of her lip to stop herself from speaking. But the words popped out anyway. “Don’t you have patients to tend to?”
He looked up, his eyes wide and his brows raised. “It’s Saturday. I don’t go in until noon—unless there’s an emergency.”
Celia tried not to frown.
Truett and the boys soon went outside while Tempie went to play with her dolls. Truett was helping Will dig a root cellar in the back yard for storing potatoes. Lizzie and Celia sat and shelled peas. After a while, Mother sat up straighter and said, “Let me help.”
Lizzie fetched her a tin dishpan and gave her a handful of pea pods. She shelled slowly but steadily until they had finished them all.
Celia went outside to fetch a bucket of water to wash the peas. As she let the bucket down into the well, she saw Truett coming toward her, fairly covered in dirt.
“Would you like some water to wash your hands?”
“You read my mind.” His smile showed white teeth against sun-browned skin. When he smiled at her like that, she felt she could hardly breathe, as well as a bit too . . . what was the word?
Feminine?
Ugh. No, she wouldn’t think about his smile or how it made her feel. His presence was just plain unsettling. Did he have to be so helpful? Her family loved him way too much.
He silently stretched his hands out in front of him. Celia hefted the bucket, holding the handle with one hand and tipping the bottom with the other. She poured a steady stream of water over his dirt-encrusted palms. They were large and callused, not the hands of most doctors, surely. They were gentle but masculine hands. He rubbed them together briskly, then turned them over as she continued pouring.
“Thank you kindly.”
She stopped and he held them by his sides to drip dry.
He captured her eyes with his. With light brown hair framing his face in small curling wisps at his temples and below his ears, his jaw cut a firm, masculine line. Did he know how appealing he was?
She had a feeling he did.
She turned away to draw more water. Suddenly, he reached over her arm and took the bucket from her hand. She jumped back.
“Sorry.” Truett’s face was only inches from hers. He drawled in a deep, soft voice, “I’ll get that for you.”
His eyes were so near, so blue. She stepped away from him to break the spell. “You certainly don’t have to.”
“But isn’t it a man’s job to make a woman’s life easier?”
Hackles rose on the back of her neck. “What do you mean by that?”
“Men do the heavier work, and women’s work is lighter.” A smile of amusement played on his lips.
“Oh, is that so?” Was he trying to make her angry?
“Of course. A man likes to feel that he’s doing the heavy tasks, the ones that are too hard for the women.”
Celia folded her arms across her chest and glared at him. He stood there with the full bucket in one hand.
“Isn’t that just so typical?” Celia’s voice rasped. Her face grew warm and her dress was suddenly too tight around her diaphragm. “Men think they’re the ‘lords of creation,’ with that smug attitude that their ‘little woman’ couldn’t live without them. Well, that’s just a load of manure!”
Truett stared a moment, his mouth falling open, then he let out a guffaw and bent forward.
Her face burned. “Maybe some women think they can’t live without you, but I’m not one of them. For your information—”
Celia searched for what to say next, hardly certain what she had just said. She should just stop before she said something she would regret, but words tumbled out of her mouth anyway.
“Not all women are like my mother.” Her voice was a rough whisper. “I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself, and so is every other woman who isn’t too silly and stupid to realize it. And if you think you’re so needed around here— The only person around here who needs you is Will!”
She stomped back toward the house with a sinking feeling that she’d just made a fool of herself—and spoken unfairly to Truett Beverly. Oh, no. Was that Will standing at the edge of the yard? Had he heard her?
What had she said anyway? Oh, what was it about this man that made her lose control of her temper and her tongue? Better to have bitten her tongue off than to be unjust to a man who had been so good to her family.
She slunk through the kitchen door. Lizzie stared at her as if she’d turned purple. Celia walked past her, straight into the bedroom, and closed the door behind her.
Oh! Why had Truett provoked her so with his smug grin and arrogant words about men being stronger than women?
Still, she really shouldn’t have said those things. She suspected her anger had little to do with him or what he said. And everything to do with how upset she was at . . . truly, she hardly knew. All she could think was, Daddy, why did you have to bring your family here and then die?
Celia threw herself across the bed, her heart hammering against her chest. She lay still until her breathing slowed to normal. Tears dripped from her eyes, her face still hot.
Men! They thought they could pull their wife up by the roots and move her to the middle of nowhere, to a backward, nowhere place without even a decent store for miles around, and then up and die. And women were even worse! Maybe they deserved their fate, if they went along with whatever their husband told them to do, never speaking their minds . . .
“Why, God?” Celia whispered against her pillow. “Was that your plan when you created marriage? Well, I will not forget my dream of owning my own dress shop just so a man can think he’s the lord of me. I won’t do it. I can’t bear to end up like Mother. She lived for Daddy, and he treated her like a servant, not an equal. She had not one thought in her head except to please him. I can’t be like that, God. I won’t be like that.”
Celia was thankful no one could hear her except God. He knew what she thought anyway. Hadn’t she begged God, since she was twelve, to not let her become like her mother? There was just something terrifying about the way her mother never seemed to have any interest in anything but housework and her father’s every whim or wish.
Celia loved so many things—sewing new dresses, creating dress patterns, and she also loved reading history books, listening to political speeches, and reading fiction stories. The thought of giving those things up for a husband made her shudder in horror, then anger.
“God, please let me go back to Nashville.” She rested her arm over her face as tears ran into her hairline and chilled her. But she also wanted to help Lizzie and her family. If she left, what would happen to Lizzie, Will, Harley and Tempie? She couldn’t leave, with no one to look after them except Mother, who barely even noticed they existed. Still, there had to be a way.
God, please help us. Don’t make me stay here. In two months, when summer is over, Lord, please let us be in Nashville. Get me back to Nashville, God. Please.
Chapter 8
The next day, Celia rode to church clutching her favorite hat to keep the wind from blowing it off her head. Lizzie had tried to get her to wear something smaller, but Celia had refused. She wasn’t going to let anyone dictate her sense of fashion. Besides, if she had to apologize—and she had determined she absolutely would apologize to Truett Beverly, even if he laughed at her—she would do it wearing her favorite dress and her favorite hat.
As they drove into the churchyard, Truett was just helping his mother down from his buggy. He turned and met Celia’s gaze, stare for stare. Before they even came to a stop, Truett began walking toward them, maybe just a tiny bit less confident and with a less jaunty step than usual.
It soon became clear he meant to get to her first and help her down from the wagon seat. Well, good. She could get this over with now.
Truett held out his hand to her. “Good morning, Miss Celia.” She was relieved to see no sign of jocularity in his expression this morning.
She took his hand, swallowed, and forced the
air past the tightness in her throat.
“Good morning, Dr. Beverly.” Heat crept into her cheeks at the remembrance of what she had said yesterday.
He helped her down.
Celia spoke quickly, while he was still standing so near and no one else was close enough to hear. “Please let me apologize for what I said yesterday, especially the part about not needing you. That was terribly ungracious.” She couldn’t meet his eyes. She stared at the ground, at her hands, and just past his shoulder by turns. “I’m sorry I sounded so ungrateful, when I truly am thankful you came to my family’s aid. You were generous and kind, and I want to thank you and tell you that I’m sorry.”
There, she’d gotten it all out without being interrupted. Thank you, God.
“I forgive you. But it was my fault. I baited you, and I’m sorry.”
What did he mean, he’d baited her? Had he been in jest the whole time? “Well, I—”
She met his intense—and yet sweet—blue gaze and forgot what she was about to say.
He had baited her. Now she remembered the mischievous little smile the day before when he’d said what he’d said. The heat in her cheeks intensified.
“What I said was true, but I said it to tease you.” His amused smile returned. “But it is a compliment to you. A man always teases the woman he wishes to impress.”
Celia tried to think of a retort, but huffed instead. She turned on her heel and stalked away. A man always teases the woman he wishes to impress. Was he saying he wanted to impress her?
Her heart tripped and tumbled, thumping against her chest. Stop that! She was beginning to think he was just an incurable flirt. Or someone with an overactive, ill-placed sense of humor.
How in creation could he wish to impress her after her fit of temper? And why did the fact that he did make her heart flutter?
That night, after the rest of the house was asleep, Celia stood behind Lizzie, brushing her long honey-blond hair. She and Will had taken after their father, while Celia had inherited her mother’s dark hair.
“Lizzie, I’ve decided I’m going to town tomorrow to send an ad to the Huntsville newspaper about our farm.”
“What do you mean? To sell it?” Lizzie turned her head to look up at Celia.
“Yes, of course. We don’t need to stay here.”
“But what about what Mama said?”
Celia was hoping Lizzie wouldn’t bring that up. “Mama hardly knows she’s in the world. She ignores the twins, she barely eats. Maybe a change of pace and scenery is exactly what she needs.”
“But Celia. She already told you she didn’t want to move.”
“She said she didn’t want to move because Daddy wants us to live here—present tense!—as if Daddy is still alive.” Celia made an attempt to lower her voice. She certainly didn’t want to wake up Will and the twins, especially during this discussion. The less they knew, the better. She took a deep breath and went on, determined to outline her reasons and plan to Lizzie. If she could get her approval, perhaps the others would fall in line.
“There’s no reason why we should stay here. I have to get back to my work in Nashville.” Celia had to take a deep breath to calm herself again. “And even if I stayed here, the three of us can’t run an entire farm, not profitably anyway. No, I think it’s better if we sell the farm and move back.”
“What if we can’t afford to live in Nashville? You’re the only one who has a job.”
Celia started braiding her sister’s hair in one thick braid down her back. “We can live simply, maybe rent a small house, until I can afford something better for you all.”
“But what if we can’t sell the farm?”
“I don’t know.” That was Celia’s biggest fear. What they needed was a tidy sum of money to get a house while they waited for the farm to sell—in case it didn’t sell right away. “Are you sure Daddy and Mama didn’t have an account at the bank where they kept some money? Surely they had some money somewhere.”
“I never heard tell of it if they did.”
Celia tapped her chin. “That’s another thing I need to do tomorrow. I’ll send an inquiry to the bank in Nashville, to see if Daddy still has an account there, and I’ll go to the bank here and see if he deposited some money there.” Celia finished braiding her sister’s hair.
“All right.” Lizzie turned to face her. Her eyes were so wide, innocent, and guileless. Lizzie had taken over so many chores, had taken care of the twins all by herself, practically. But she trusted Celia to take care of them all.
And that’s exactly what Celia would do. She would not let Lizzie down. Or Will. Or Harley and Tempie.
Lizzie’s forehead clouded a bit. “But what about Mama? What if she gets upset? You know how mad she was at you for mentioning selling this place.”
“We can’t worry about that.” Celia made her face convey more firmness and confidence than she was feeling. “We have to do what’s best. Mother isn’t thinking clearly—obviously—isn’t thinking at all. We have to make the decisions now.”
“Will might not understand. He likes it here.”
“Will is only twelve. He doesn’t have a say, I’m afraid.”
Celia wore her big, fashionable hat again as she rode to town on one of the mares.
That’s another thing I need to sell. These horses her father bought. The two missing ones would probably never be found. Someone probably caught and sold them. But they still had three that they could sell. Perhaps she could send them back to the breeding farm in Kentucky where her father bought them. She’d have to look into that too.
Celia entered the post office with her letters to both The Huntsville Independent and The Nashville Banner, advertising their farm for sale. She wouldn’t have to pay much for a small ad, less than a dollar, and it would be worth it if it brought a buyer.
After posting her letters and the payment for the ad, she led her horse across the street to The Bank of Bethel Springs.
The door squeaked when she opened it. All the windows were striped with iron bars. The building appeared empty except for a man behind a desk against the far wall. He stood, moved around the desk, and shuffled toward her. His trousers were held up by suspenders and hitched high over a rotund belly. He tucked his chin into his chest, the fat rolling up around his jaws, and looked at her over the top of tiny spectacles.
“Wiley Fordyce,” he announced. “What may I do for you, young lady?”
Wiley Fordyce was the owner of the bank. Good. She wouldn’t have to go through a clerk. “Mr. Fordyce, my name is Celia Wilcox. My father was William Wilcox.”
Mr. Fordyce cleared his throat. “So sorry about your father’s death.”
But he didn’t look terribly sorry. Instead, his eyes fixed her with a steely look.
“I came to see if my father had an account here.” Celia’s cheeks heated at the blunt question. “He didn’t leave a will, you see, and my family and I weren’t quite sure about all his affairs.”
“I see.” Fordyce raised his brows. His small eyes never wavered from her face. “Of course, this information is confidential, but since you’re his daughter, and the eldest . . . I’m afraid the answer to your question is no. Your father did not have any money in this bank. Never set foot in here that I know of.” He lifted his hand to his mouth. She hadn’t noticed it before, but he held a cigar between two fingers. He clamped it between his teeth.
“Oh.” Celia’s face probably turned a shade pinker. What could she say now? “Thank you, Mr. Fordyce, for the information.” She smiled as pleasantly as she could.
“Yes, ma’am. I mean, miss.” He grinned at his own blunder, then watched as she backed away.
Celia stepped back out onto the sunny street. So they were destitute. I am the oldest child and sole protector of a family of four siblings and a mother who can no longer function as such, and I have no money and no immediate way to provide.
She took a deep breath and turned toward the hitching post where she’d left her mare. True
tt Beverly stood there, stroking her horse’s neck. That man was everywhere. But if she was honest, she didn’t mind so much. After the embarrassing confrontation with the impersonal banker, the sight of Truett made her heart lift.
He nodded in greeting. “Everything all right?”
Celia made an effort to smile and look nonchalant. “Of course, Dr. Beverly. Any patients this morning?”
“One. Monday morning’s usually pretty brisk, but it slows down in the summer.” He quirked one side of his mouth at his joke. He stopped rubbing the mare and stepped toward her. “You know, as I said, I’m sorry for teasing you. If you ever need anything, let me know.”
His face was serious. He was probably thinking, Poor fatherless, unmarried girl, well on her way to spinsterhood, with a crazy mother and four siblings to care for.
But perhaps he could help her. She was desperate enough to ask. “As a matter of fact, I’m trying to find someone to buy our farm.”
His mouth went slack. “You are?”
“Yes. And I would greatly appreciate it if you could keep an ear out for anyone who might want it. I’ve sent an advertisement to both The Huntsville Independent and The Nashville Banner. Do you have any other advice for me?”
Truett rubbed his chin and looked down. The red dirt covered his boots with orange dust. “I suppose those are good newspapers for getting the word out. You could advertise in a few more papers, perhaps up North. You never know who might be interested.”
She didn’t know why, but his simple, earnest answer touched her. His gaze caught hers and held it.
“Where will you go? Back to Nashville?”
“Yes, of course. I need to get back to my job.”
“You have family there who could help you?”
“No.” Celia twisted the strings of her purse in her hands as she thought of their extended family—or lack thereof. “Truthfully, we don’t have much family. Daddy had some aunts and uncles in Dyersburg, but we haven’t heard from them in years. Mother’s family is gone, died before I was born, most of them. But we’ll be all right.”
Magnolia Summer (Southern Seasons Book 1) Page 7
